


Hoşgeldin, kardeşim!

by pdorkaa



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: And he's really patient, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Ezio is so clueless it hurts, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Torture, Istanbul, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Yusuf is an actual cinnamon roll okay?, this is not a dark story i swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdorkaa/pseuds/pdorkaa
Summary: "Ezio, I barely have time to polish my blade."As a cunning Templar plan unfolds around them, Ezio and Yusuf are forced to fight tooth and nail for what they hold dear, discovering that they perhaps stand to lose more than they'd previously thought.





	1. Chapter 1

_Hoşgeldin kardeşim_ , a voice says, and Ezio is swept up in the warm feeling of brotherhood, in the secure feeling of knowing that wherever he goes, he'll have a family, he'll have brothers and sisters to fall back on.

Mentor da Firenze, the voice says, and it's respectful for all its boisterous cheer and tongue-in-cheek attitude. It tells of many new wonders, it teaches Ezio new things - the hookblade, made of a hook and a blade, an elegant solution - and it only just starts purring into Ezio's ear, low and sensual, when Ezio is woken by the flesh-and-blood owner of the dreamed voice.

He blinks his eyes open, slow to recognise the world around him, and shakes himself as a cat might. Yusuf Tazim is watching him with glittering sapphire eyes, eyes that cut through him no matter how he tries to shut himself away. Even on that first day, at the port - _hoşgeldin kardeşim_ \- the blue eyes looked at him, looked into him, and weren't the slightest bit intimidated by what they've found. That was... Unusual.

Ezio shakes himself again, to get all strange thoughts loose, and with a definitive strech, he slides - doesn't clamber, because he's an Assassin Mentor and he has dignity - out of bed and stands, smoothing a few creases out of his breeches as he sweeps a hand over them. 

"What is it?" He asks Yusuf, and feels the Italian undertones tug at his words a little more than usual. He stifles the yawn pressing against the insides of his throat, and crosses the room in a few steps, knees crackling and eyes finding Yusuf's time after time when the other man doesn't answer. Instead, his features slide into a slow and easy grin, and Ezio is half-expecting a comment about his old age when Yusuf's face darkens again, emotions rolling over his features like rainclouds over a hilltop.

"Dress" he finally says.

The suggestion is an useless one, because Ezio has already assumed he should, and is already in the process of dressing - he pulls his tunic over his head, rolling his shoulders a little to get the cloth in place, and starts for the various hidden compartments and knife-holders he likes to wear under his robes. Then, of course, come the actual Assassin robes, and he can imagine Yusuf's amused look as he wrestles with them for a moment before they, too, slide into place, well-worn and comfortable. Not his white ones, surrendered long ago, and not even Altaïr's, lost at Monteriggioni. Black ones, fitted when he became old enough to wear them with grace, as his mother used to say.  Black ones to remind himself of mortality - his and everyone else's. A little tattered, because Masyaf hasn't done them a favour, but they still command an air of dignity.

Yusuf watches him dress, never saying a word, which is curious - Ezio has known the man long enough by now to recognise well-hidden rage in the subtlest press of his lips or the set if his shoulders. A man given to jests, prone to laugh is always dangerous when angered.

Ezio, were he a more thoughtful man, would stop for a moment and contemplate the reasons behind knowing another so intimately. He is not thoughtful a man enough; however, he knows himself well, and knows he has no desire to stop the process, simply because he has no desire to face desires. Maybe, later, when it proves itself to be a problem, he'll have no choice but to confront himself, but for now, he shakes off the remainder of his strange thoughts and claps Yusuf on the shoulder. He strengthens his grip a little, to offer what comfort he can, to wipe the dark look off the other's face.

"What happened, my friend?"

"Your Sofia Sartor" Yusuf says, holding his eyes for the first time this morning, "is gone."

"Gone?" Ezio echoes, distantly, because that's another desire he chose not to face, a much stronger one at that, one that has smouldered quietly to present itself as a problem right now. Right now, because Yusuf's words shine a new light on the woman - she'd have been someone to treasure, if only Ezio had taken the time to--

"She's been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" Ezio echoes, again, and the overwhelming sense of relief that washes over him is something he wasn't prepared for. Relief, because now there is nothing that could prevent him from saving her. He steels himself, only realising now that he still hasn't let go of Yusuf's shoulder. He claps on it a little, to avoid any awkwardness, and really, his days were much easier thirty years ago. Cristina, at least, hadn't known the first thing about him - though, granted, he had no clue about himself either.

He drags a hand over his face to hide a long-suffering sigh, and motions for Yusuf to follow him with his other. Together they go down the winding staircase to the common areas, and to Ezio's surprise, there is already a number of disciples waiting for them. Yusuf barks a few orders, clipped words in Turkish, and they straighten and snap to attention, then leave in a neat file - Ezio supposes they are assuming strategic positions around the city.

Sofia Sartor's disappearance can be regarded as nothing but a Templar offensive. Ezio knows not how the Templars found her, but it's long since he's been surprised by their cunning. After all, Sofia resided on top of Niccolò Polo's old outpost, on top of one of the Masyaf keys, and Ezio was foolish to think that the Templars wouldn't find the location. And even though he doesn't quite understand how the Templars knew she was important to him - even though he doesn't quite understand her importance to him either - he feels with a burning kind of guilt that her life is in danger solely because of him. 

Still, he knows better than to curse Altaïr, than to curse Masyaf, and sets his jaw instead, focusing on the objective at hand. There is a chance that Sofia will be used as a bargaining chip for the keys in Ezio's possession, and for that, she'll be kept alive. Moreover, if the Templars are every bit the gentlemen they claim to be, they won't lay a finger on her. Sadly, Ezio is more familiar with their henchmen, who may decide to entertain themselves against the orders they received. And even though most of his experience comes from another country, from another continent, he supposes that henchmen are very much alike everywhere, no matter the tongue they speak.

A curse almost rolls off the tip of his tongue before he catches himself - _Dio_ , he's old for this line of work. A sharp tug of longing pulls him back to Roma; when he became Mentor, he couldn't imagine a longing for his desk and his quiet library and precise scheming. He'd always thought that fit Machiavelli better. Yet, here he is, thinking that the time when he should've let the mantle of actual Assassin work pass onto the younger generations has long since passed.

He sighs, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders, and glances up to Yusuf, who is all but radiating the calm, steel-cold determination that makes Assassins such an intimidating enemy.

"We must not act in haste, Ezio" Yusuf says, yanking him out of his darkening thoughts. The man's voice and face are uncharacteristically solemn, although Ezio has learned that Yusuf, jester he might be, is a serious, dependable man underneath his humour.

When Ezio nods, Yusuf continues: "My Assassins are already gathering information. We'll know where she is held in a matter of hours."

"Thank you" is all Ezio says, raw and hoarse, and he is baffled by how affected he is by this. Yusuf seats himself at a table, and Ezio follows, trying to find meaning in the furtive glance the other Assassin sends him.

Yusuf slings his legs onto the corner of the table and tilts his chair back, but his eyes remain serious. "Tell me" a vague hand gesture, stirring dust in the air, "more about her."

Ezio laughs a little. "What is there to tell?" He stops, considering. He hasn't confronted this particular corner of his thoughts yet, and it's likely Yusuf knows that, too - the bastard is perceptive, Ezio has to give him that.

"I was... A bit of a _stronzo_ growing up, and in most of my young life" Ezio begins, smiling a little sheepishly, and he scratches his greying beard. "And i loved women" he adds, smile turning into a grin, boyish even on his weathered face.

"Ah, I see that hasn't changed" Yusuf smiles, but it's a little sad, a little wistful around the edges. Ezio shakes his head at the implication. 

"I had... A close friend" he continues, faltering. Istanbul - Constaninopoli, Konstantinyye, however else they chose to call it - may be the most diverse city he's ever seen, there remain things one doesn't talk about. Leonardo's smile flashes for a moment before his eyes. "We upheld a flourishing relationship" he says finally, and the words seem too stilted, too sterile to describe twenty years of his past.

Yusuf's eyes warm a little. "A very good friend, then" he says, and Ezio understands that Yusuf has read between the lines, read him easily. The Assassins really hadn't cared about much of social standards anyways, come to think of it - their very purpose was to exist outside the constricts of society.

" _Sì_ " he nods, and can't help but wonder a little at Leonardo, wonder how someone so intelligent, fragile and artistic saw their universe in him. He has always felt a little... Obtuse, next to Leonardo. A little rough around the edges, a little uncultured, a bit of a brute next to someone through whom, it seemed at times, the sun shone. But Leonardo did see something in him, and Leonardo made him feel like no one has ever had before. Sofia, in her intelligence and elegance, in the simplicity of her beauty, was the only one in a long time - the only one since Leonardo - that made him want something more than a fleeting night (or multiple nights) of passion.

"I've never wanted to settle down but then" he says, meeting Yusuf's eyes again. Yusuf's knowing smile tells him that the other man heard the unspoken 'until now' between his words.

Their conversation is interrupted when a young disciple, not older than fifteen years old, brings them coffee. Ezio, not for the first time, is baffled by how seamlessly these Assassins operate together, not just on missions, but in the way of everyday life, too. Here they are, presented with coffee, and while they might have thought of sending for it (Yusuf may have), they made no move to indicate it. It is a sense of community entirely different from the Italian Brotherhood's, a sense of community not built on harsh moral codes and respect by age and rank, but on respect earned with and for each other. It feels like home, but it also feels different, easier in most things and more complicated in others. It feels like an intricate web of family connections, and that is something they've never been able to build between the cold, yawning stones and halls of Roma.

Ezio chuckles as he reaches for his cup, his eyes lingering at the various carpets and tapestries, thinking that maybe the décor has something to do with it, and takes a sip. The bitter liquid bites at his tongue, and he grimaces as he swallows, still not used to the drink the locals are so fond of.

Yusuf lets out a bark of a laugh at him as he, too, sets his cup back down, thanking the disciple, who has somehow remained there, standing, her eyes full of unspoken thoughts as she studies Ezio's face. Yusuf's voice startles her out of her wonder, and she nods hastily and leaves, but not without sparing a glance for Ezio over her shoulder. 

Ezio, entirely used to such happenings, only sighs, but Yusuf laughs again.

"I can see why settling down has proved to be a problem" he jeers, reaching for the coffee again.

"I might be getting a little old for that" Ezio muses, and really, he is getting old for that - maybe, ten years ago he wouldn't've had any second thoughts. Now, though, he is more mature; his mother's face and voice floats up in his memories. "My mother said to me once that I need a pastime, something to occupy me." He takes a sip, then continues, "she didn't wait for me to answer. She added that she meant besides vaginas."

Yusuf truly laughs then, and sets the cups and saucers rattling and clinking. He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and smooths back a lock of silk-black hair. "A woman with a sharp eye!" He chuckles.

Ezio smiles, perhaps a little sheepishly, and nods. "That was... A long time ago, now."

"Men your age enjoy their long-earned rest, Mentor da Firenze" Yusuf agrees, and the mirth in his eyes is too much for Ezio's dignity to bear, and he lets out a scoff. He is only fifty-two years old, and the days of his prime may have left him, but he is still far from an old man, especially in terms of physical strength and athleticism. His knees may crackle and pop sometimes, and his back might ache in cold nights, but those are only minor signs of age.

Just as he is about to snap back at Yusuf, though, an Assassin stops by the table, setting down a piece of parchment. There are a few words scribbled on it, but Ezio cannot read the peculiar script. He assumes, however, that it's to do with Sofia, from the way the corners of Yusuf's eyes pinch at the parchment.

"She is held in the catacombs under the Grand Bazaar" he says, lifting his eyes to Ezio. He nods at the Assassin, and adds a few short commands - a call for an assembly, probably.

Ezio, no matter his lingering reputation, is not a reckless man, not anymore. There was a time when he'd have stood up, flexed his wrist to draw his blade and would have barged out, hot-headed and lit by the blazing thirst for revenge, but not anymore.

Now, he simply leans forward and sets his elbows on the table, calm and controlled, albeit with such vigour that his empty cup clinks and the spoon tumbles off the saucer onto the table. He meets Yusuf's eyes squarely, and they share a nod.

"We should move as soon as we are able to" is all Ezio says, and all Yusuf's reaction is another nod, more definite this time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please consult [this](http://hvit-ravn.tumblr.com/post/163667057518) excellent piece of fanart for further Yusuf reference. yes. (also maybe [this](http://hvit-ravn.tumblr.com/tagged/yusuf-tazim) tag.)

It is dawn, and the pale greyish blue of the Istanbul sky starts to lighten, to gain more colour, and the rising sun touches the tips of the mosques and minarets, coating the rooftops with a golden sheen, glittering here and there as the light reflects off of polished bronze adornments. The tower of the Galata Assassin den stands tall, white and pristine in the light of the new day, and Ezio shivers as the night gives way to the sun. He tugs one side of his robes down a little so they fit more snugly, and takes a breath. He might've let someone get into harm's way, but never again. He swears, never again, and doesn't stop to reflect on how many times he's made that promise both to himself and to others. Doesn't stop to think about that, because it would mean accepting that the world sometimes works like that, it would mean accepting that he cannot win this battle, this war without losing people, and it has taken him too long to put himself back together after Roma. It's taken too long, picking up the pieces, after realising that he himself is but a vessel for someone greater but yet to come.

He doesn't think at all, in fact; leaves these hidden, uncertain thoughts in the dark corners of his mind as he, with another deep breath, leaps off the tower and down into the only waking city.

During the night and early dawn hours, he and Yusuf have come up with a sound plan - the help of many of the Assassins and Piri Reis will prove to be invaluable, and now they have nothing left to do till they wait for the reinforcements and explosives to arrive.

Perhaps caving in some tunnels and catacombs under the most frequented part of the city sounds like a bad plan. Perhaps, Ezio thinks, but he knows better; he's had far more experience with tunnels, catacombs and sewers than he'd care to admit. He knows that as long as they place the explosives precisely in the places marked on the map, the underground system - and the Bazaar above - will be left intact. Almost intact. The explosives serve more as a diversion anyways, he reasons. Ezio knows not why he's distressed, but the rush of air against his face and the dizzying pull of gravity has helped some, and he rolls out of the haystack, brushing a few straws off himself, and heads for the entrance of the den.

Yusuf is waiting for him in the common area, amongst boxes and Assassins, and they share a decisive nod before Yusuf gives out his orders. It feels like going to war; in a sense, they are. This is the first open confrontation between the Byzantine Templars and the Ottoman Assassins in a long time, maybe even a decade - Yusuf has told him that the Assassin presence hasn't ever been this strong in the city. And with Ezio here, they are going to build a much bigger force. They just need to set this straight first.

They go; slinking into the still-long shadows the weak morning sun casts on the street, thirteen Assassins leave the den one by one and start towards the hub of the city.

 

* * *

 

They counted on this, Ezio reasons and grits his teeth as he yanks his hidden blade out of a Templar stomach, raising his other arm to block an axe-strike with his sword. They have made every possible precaution, and they knew that the catacombs were heavily guarded. Still, each new clatter of metal upon metal sends a shiver of rage down his spine - never again, he swore this morning and if they lose someone here... He knows his world will crumble. Originally, he'd set out in search of the truth, in search of his history, yet here he is, and he'd found more than he'd ever bargained for. 

The line of thought about what it is exactly he'd found is, however, abruptly shattered when another Templar guard charges - not, him, at Yusuf, who somehow never left his range of vision this entire time.

Ezio doesn't have time to think this through, he doesn't have time to catalogue the weaknesses and strengths of his opponent because before he could do that, he's already in front of Yusuf, sword raised high to shield them both from a strike. The Templar's sword slides along Ezio's blade, catching the hilt, and, after a brief struggle of power, skates along Ezio's lower arm.

There is no pain, simply because there is no time to register it. Ezio thrusts his hidden blade forward, embedding it just below the sternum of his enemy, angled so it cuts a direct pats to his heart. The Templar crumbles and his sword, bloodied as it is, clatters to the ground.

Yusuf and Ezio both take a moment, just a fraction of a second to breathe, then Yusuf says "we should see if others are in need of saving, _kardeşim_ ", with a touch of exhausted mirth in his eyes, and Ezio nods and stalks off, his right arm hanging a little limp. He doesn't feel Yusuf's lingering eyes on him.

They catch up with the rest of Yusuf's Assassins in front of a pair of large carved doors and an impressive heap of Templar bodies. Ezio can see why the doors proved a challenge for the Ottomans; amongst the rich _horror vacui_ carvings, both the ancient Assassin and Templar marks are present, indicating the previous tenants who commandeered the chambers behind.

Yusuf holds a brief conversation with his men. "Ezio" he says, lifting his eyes to his, "if you would use your famed senses?"

Ezio, accustomed to the way Yusuf always seems cynical without meaning to, simply nods and concentrates on the doors. There is a rush of familiar pressure against his temples, and the word fades, first only around the edges, then completely, and his focus sharpens. There is a dull static throbbing against his eardrums, and the doors glow in a bluish-dark light. There is a pattern illuminated on the right side, and Ezio only hesitates for a brief moment before tracing the pattern with his fingertips, pressing at a spot that glows brighter than the rest. The doors give way with a creak and rumble that is audible even through the dull static of this state. Ezio blinks his vision clear, the pressure fading from his temples and his ears as the world regains its colour around him.

The Assassins are already moving in, fanning out, following the walls of the chamber then moving inwards. There is the rustle of fabric and the clatter of coins against the floor tiles, and Ezio steps in, momentarily blinded by the glittering of gold as the light of torches reflects off the Templar treasure.

Sofia isn't there, and Ezio has to fight the urge to roar that bubbles up in his chest. He takes deep breath, instead, and hopes with a skyward glance that wherever his mother is, she swells with pride when he is able to rein in his anger.

" _Efendi!_ " A resounding call sounds from somewhere deep inside, and Ezio has learnt to recognise a few Turkish words since he'd arrived, and jerks his head up. Master, the voice calls again, and although it's unclear whether it is him or Yusuf being addressed, he wastes no time in stalking directly through piles and piles of plunder towards the Assassin's voice. He feels, rather than sees Yusuf flanking him, although the other man steps around the gold rather than scattering it around him wading through it, as Ezio does in his haste. However much he's matured, he will stay an impulsive man forever, the thought flits across his mind as he reaches the Ottoman Assassin calling them.

The man is standing in front of a little alcove separated from the main chamber with thick iron bars, rusting here and there but still firmly in place. There is a large keyhole on one side, and the hinges on the other are rusty but they hold steadfast as the Assassin tries his strength against them. Yusuf yells out orders, and Ezio needn't know Turkish to understand that he is ordering his men to search the bodies for the corresponding key.

The world rushes in and fades to a blur, because there is a woman in the cage, her ginger locks scattered around her in a dirty, tangled mess, and her dressing gown is splattered with mud and blood. Sofia, Ezio thinks, and his heart breaks into a thousand pieces as she lifts her eyes to his without a trace of recognition in them.

" _Pietà_ " she whispers, her voice broken, and her _veneto_ accent is thicker than Ezio is used to. " _Perdono_..."

Ezio knows not why she is asking for mercy and forgiveness, but he can very well assume. His jaw clenches, mirrored by a jerk of his wrist that inadvertently draws his hidden blade. Sofia visibly flinches, and scuttles backwards, pressing against the sheet rock behind her.

" _Calmati_ " Ezio whispers after a deep breath, retracting his blade, trying to calm her. " _Son' Ezio, non mi conosci? Sei salvata--_ " His voice breaks. Perhaps saying 'you are saved' has an unintentional biblical ring to it, especially after this long without speaking his mother tongue, but he can't help himself. The overpowering sense of relief is too much, too much for him to bear, and he clenches his eyes shut for a moment to fight back tears. When he opens them, Sofia's face is clear of any recognition, but she seems a little less terrified. Before Ezio can say anything more, before he can try to placate her, Yusuf lays a hand on his shoulder, extending his other palm with a large iron key in it. Ezio straightens up and takes the key, wrenches the bars open. The Turk turns away to click his fingers, and another Assassin steps up to him, handing a cloak to him that Yusuf passes on to Ezio.

Ezio shoots him a grateful glance, still edged with glistening tears - a memory surfaces in him, Yusuf teasing him about tearing up in front of disciples. He blinks the memory and his tears out of his eyes; it is not the time for idle reminiscence. He approaches Sofia, murmuring softly as not to scare her again, and drapes the cloak over her.

"Ezio?" She surges forward with a burst of sudden strength. " _Cos'è successo?_ "

What do you mean what happened, Ezio wants to ask but doesn't, because he is all too familiar with the shell-shock Sofia is experiencing right now. He is grateful, truly, that she doesn't seem to remember, but he knows that later on, she will have to confront these memories. He wishes she wouldn't have to, and he wows to be there with her, wows to help her through this, to never leave her alone, to never put her in danger again. He knows it's a reckless promise, one that he is not sure, even now, he will be able to keep. He wows nonetheless, and coaxes Sofia out of the corner, out of the cell and onto her feet.

" _Non ti preoccupare_ " he keeps her steady on her feet and assures her that she needn't worry, still in Italian, because something tells him that she cannot understand anything else now but her own language.

He glances around, and he's surprised to notice that there's no one in the chamber except Yusuf, and even he is standing in the doorframe, looking out into the corridor rather than at them. Warm gratefulness floods Ezio, and he thinks again that this community works like a well-oiled machine, and without orders for most of the time. Yusuf seems to sense the emotions and moods of those around him, and never fails to act in accordance. Ezio feels his eyes warm as he looks at Yusuf, a little baffled but not at all surprised that he seems to be included in the family Yusuf has created in the Galata den.

He and Sofia make it to the doors when her legs give out and her eyes roll back as she loses consciousness. Ezio holds her steady till Yusuf steps closer to help him hoist Sofia's limp body into his arms.

That he has accomplished to save her - and that they have cleared a rather large Templar infestation and have probably liberated the city from a good portion of Templar influence - somehow doesn't taste like victory in his mouth. It tastes like the copper-tinged blood and the smoke that would remain behind him when he is through with the Templars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [horror vacui](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horror_vacui)


	3. Chapter 3

It is night again, the sounds of the city dimmed as the tenants retire and shutter their lanterns and lights. Ezio steps up onto the roof of the den and crosses to the base of the tower, surprised when he finds Yusuf sitting there with a whetstone. He sits next to him, leaning his back against the whitewashed watchtower, content to enjoy the silence only broken by the rhythmical slide of a blade against the whetstone.

"I see you do find the time for that" he says after a while, and Yusuf looks at him, the light in his eyes responding to the subtle mirth in Ezio's.

"Far less often than I'd like to" is all Yusuf says in response, and although neither of them are sure whether they are talking about the sharpening of the knives or something else entirely, the air is amiable and easy around them. They settle back into the comfortable silence again, but Ezio feels that something has changed - perhaps a sort of heavy expectance fills them, he thinks as he examines the feeling more closely. Yusuf glances up at him from his work, time and again, but says nothing, and Ezio is not sure whether the other man is waiting for him to say something or is wanting to say something himself.

The silence stretches on, and Ezio leans his head back and closes his eyes against the light breeze.

"How is your friend?" Yusuf asks finally, and Ezio blinks his eyes open in surprise at the hoarse rasp of it, at the accent that is more present than usual. 

"Resting" he answers, feeling a little reluctant to elaborate. Yusuf hums, sliding the blade experimentally across the tips of his fingers, and apparently he deems it sharp enough, because he reaches across his shoulder to put it away and pull out the next one. The moon reflects off the throwing knife, casting a dull illumination on Yusuf's face.

Ezio feels himself staring, but cannot bring himself to care as he studies the other's face - sharp edges and sharper eyes, smooth olive skin, and a tangle of raven-black beard. Yusuf isn't wearing the orange-turquoise scarf he usually ties around his forehead, and his black curls spill all over his face and shoulders, untameable as the man himself seems to be. The crooked line of Yusuf's nose is elegant, noble without any trace of hauteur, and the line of his mouth is fine, the flesh supple and smooth, the corner dragged up, casting a shadow of a dimple onto his skin. There is a hint of teeth showing, because Yusuf has his tongue pinched between his canines as he concentrates, canines that seem sharper in the silver light. Ezio sucks in a sharp breath and drags his fingers across his mouth, rubbing at his lower lip almost unconsciously. The movement causes Yusuf to look up.

The rhythm of the blade against the stone falters as Yusuf holds Ezio's eyes for an endless moment. Ezio feels short of oxygen, and no amount of air he breathes in can provide it, because the air around them smells like Yusuf, smells like spices and oils and metal, like warmth and coffee and sharp blades and sharper words, and Ezio is not sure he will be able to breathe again. 

The hoot of a nighttime bird sounds above them, and there follows a soft rustle of feathers as the bird - probably an owl - settles on top of the watchtower. They do not flinch away, because they are trained Assassins, not novice boys, but the moment is broken, and Yusuf returns to his task, even as Ezio remains there for a second more. He takes a deep, controlled breath and leans back against the cold wall of the tower. He knows not whether to be relieved or disappointed - although he knows not what would have transpired, and for once, he feels thankful for lack of knowledge.

The sound of the knife against the whetstone picks up again, and Ezio finds himself fumbling for something to say.

"At the Vaticano" he starts, his words hesitant, "I saw a vision." Yusuf hums and tilts his head to show he's listening, but doesn't look up again, and Ezio is grateful. It's surprising that this is the tale that bubbles out of him, because he hardly ever talks about that, hardly ever musters the strength to remember the white-clad woman, terrifying in her power and pale as a ghost.

"A woman" he continues, "dressed in white robes and metal shoulder-guards." He suppresses the shiver that threatens to run down his spine. "The Assassins' bane, I'm told - she spoke to me as I held the Apple of Eden." He takes a stuttering breath and soldiers on. "She spoke to me, but she was speaking through me to someone that hasn't been born yet, someone who will be able to see this through my eyes one day."

Yusuf stops his movements and looks at him now, from behind the curtain of black locks.

"I have never fathered a child, and yet, I'm already an ancestor of someone greater than all of us. I am but a vessel for a prophecy that I need to fulfil, regardless of my personal desires."

"Your friend" Yusuf says, and Ezio knows he's not talking about Sofia this time. He marvels briefly at the other's perception, but nods. 

"Leonardo" he agrees, the name rolling off his tongue easily, even as pain lances through his chest. Yusuf isn't surprised in the least bit, he can tell; the other man simply puts away the sharpened throwing knife and pulls out a third, motioning for Ezio to continue.

"He... Understood it. Even better than I had at the time. Better than I do, even now." He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. Understanding did not mean that it was easy to leave behind two decades of his life, and he remembers the solemn, sad smile Leonardo cast him when he said his goodbyes.

Yusuf takes the knife in his other hand and squeezes Ezio's shoulder briefly, offering what small comfort he can. Ezio lets out a long breath, one he didn't realise he was holding, and hoists his shoulder up, thanking the other. Yusuf understands, and turns back to his whetstone.

"Is that the reason for..." Yusuf starts to ask, but seems to think better of it in the middle of the sentence.

"Sofia?" Ezio finishes for him, surprised when a huff leaves his lips. Not a laugh, but almost. He feels lighter already, and finds it easy to continue. "One of the reasons, my friend."

He wonders if his tone seems oddly decisive only to him, but from Yusuf's sharp nod, he thinks not. And the subject is closed, and they remain there in silence till Yusuf finishes polishing his blades.

 

* * *

 

Ezio wakes at the sound of screaming and of boots rushing. The voice is high-pitched, and although there are far more women here at the den than men, he instinctively knows that it is Sofia. He rolls out from under the duvet to land in a crouch, and stops only to yank a nightshirt over his breeches before stepping out to the corridor and bolting in the direction of Sofia's quarters.

A novice is already crouching at Sofia's bedside, dabbing at her forehead as she tries to calm her wordlessly. Her movements are slow, deliberate and placating, as if not to frighten the other woman, and she meticulously cleans Sofia's forehead of the beading sweat. She puts the rag down and lifts her hands, fingers outstretched, and makes a questioning motion, to which Sofia nods, still breathless. The girl combes back her hair then, out of her face, and twists it loosely at the nape, pinning it with a wooden accessory. Sofia sags back against her pillows, and the corners of her mouth lift a little. The novice smiles back at her, sweet and calm, and nods her goodbyes. She halts a little when she sees Ezio, but with a polite 'Master' and a bow of her head, she scurries around him and disappears down the hallway.

"Ezio" Sofia sighs in greeting.

" _Come stai?_ " How are you is probably not the best question to ask, and Ezio winces inwardly as he steps closer and sits on a stool next to her bed. He has long accepted that he will stay forever tactless, but it hurts his pride still. He looks Sofia over; she looks pale, haunted and distressed, but her face has definitely gained some colour since this noon. Even in a state like this, he finds the woman glaringly beautiful - a few of Leonardo's portraits may come close, but no living woman can compete, he thinks.

" _Bene_ " Sofia sighs again. "I feel... Better, a little. The bed helps" she chuckles weakly, the words lilting like silk in the wind. They talk amongst them in Italian, and it creates intimacy between them, and Ezio is grateful that he can offer at least this much comfort. In happier times, he might have cracked a joke or two about joining Sofia to see if the bed lives up to its looks, but these are not happier times. He thinks of the horrors she must have lived through, and white-hot rage coils inside him, burning his stomach and threatening to eat him alive. He breathes deeply through his nose.

"When you are ready to talk about it" he says, "I will be here to listen."

Sofia's eyes pinch in dolour and terror, and they well with tears. Ezio knows that this is painful for her, but it must be done, and the sooner, the better. For now, though, it is enough to let her know she's not alone, and Ezio remains silent as she struggles with her tears and forces out a nod.

A long silence envelops them, but finally Sofia musters the strength to ask if Ezio could send her caretaker back. The girl apparently doesn't speak but Turkish, and Sofia now cannot speak but Italian, but they understand each other, in the way Ezio has noticed women do. They communicate in shared glances, in tilts of the head and lifts of the hand, in expressive hums and the furrowing of eyebrows.

" _Perdonami_ , Ezio" Sofia says, forgive me, "but I am quite tired."

Ezio nods his understanding. "Sleep well. _Buonanotte_."

He is not surprised when he finds the novice leaning into the wall some two doors down, clearly keeping watch and waiting for him to leave. A strong Assassin, stalwart and steadfast she'll grow up to be, Ezio sees, nods at her, and leaves the way he came.

The minute the door closes behind him, he sends his inkwell flying into the wall. He does not care; he picks up his spare one and flings it into another, his quills, his parchments, his pillow, his sheaths. He embeds three or four throwing knives into the wall, too, before there is a knock on his door.

Only his sharp reflexes save Yusuf - he ducks just as an impressively large dagger flies towards him, cutting through the air just where his head had been. The dagger is closely followed by a crystal paperweight, and it shatters where the dagger only clattered against the door across, exploding into a million shards of light. The pieces fall on the heavy carpets and roll, casting rainbows on the walls around where the torchlight hits them.

Ezio turns away and curses, mutters oaths under his breath in Italian, fisting his hands into his hair. His back muscles are tense to the point where they cause pain, and his shoulders are heavier than he's ever felt them be.

Yusuf straightens and steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him. "A simple 'welcome' would have sufficed" is all he says.

Ezio turns back to look at him, with murder screaming in his eyes and flames around his head. " _Che cazzo_ do you think you're doing here?"

He knows he keeps lapsing back into his mother tongue, but he cannot - and will not - help it. He is long past the point of caring about appearances, he is long past the point where he can keep himself tightly reined in.

"I came to ask you not to ruin my property, but I see that I am late, my friend" Yusuf returns Ezio's barbed words with his own, and suddenly now they're at a standoff, only inches away from each other. Yusuf, however, has more of a level head than Ezio has ever had, and steps back, lifting his palms in clear surrender. "I came to see what the noise was about" he adds, his tone placating.

"It is nothing" Ezio answers him, still glaring. He scrubs a hand over his face, hiding his eyes. His other is still tangled into his greying hair, and the pull against his scalp feels good, it keeps him grounded, but it is not strong enough and he cannot pull harder. Yusuf doesn't say anything at the blatant lie, although Ezio can imagine his lift of an amused eyebrow.

"Ezio, I know that you are shaken, we all are, but--"

Ezio cuts him off before he can finish the sentence. He has always hated being needled about his emotions that were not all over the place, and not all the time, thank you very much. He doesn't need - or care for - others' attempts at making him talk about them, either. He may be older, wiser now, but this one thing has never changed - he only learnt to avoid these conversations better. He feels entirely justified at snapping and lashing out, and it feels better only because he's been holding so much inside these past days. Decades.

" _Vaffanculo, Leonardo,_ leave me alone already!"

He only realises what he has said when after a brief stretch of silence and a strangled hitch of breath, the door creaks open then slides closed. He lifts his hand to see that he is alone in the chamber, and the sob that has been threatening to break out of him all day finally comes, wretched and miserable, and Ezio sags onto the floor, crying like he hasn't in a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

_Brother,_

_I am afraid that I must share painful news with you; Messere Leonardo da Vinci has been taken and used as a bargaining chip by the Templars. Our Order is strong, and fear not, we will not cower in the face of this vile Templar threat - however, as of the moment, we cannot say where he is held._

_I will not hesitate to write again if we acquire new information about Messere Leonadro's whereabouts, and I beg you, brother, not to come back now. The needs of our Order outweigh the needs of one, and Messere Leonardo himself would tell you that the ancient library of Masyaf is worth more than he himself._

_Again, I assure you that we will find him and rescue him from Templar hands. You, however, need to fulfil your part in this; we need Altaïr's wisdom now more than ever. Moreover, the Templars are counting on your hot head, brother - now, you are of greater help to us in Constantinopoli than in Roma._

_Take care of yourself and of your mission well,_

_Claudia_

Ezio scrunches the parchment in his hands, then smooths it out again, for the umpteenth time this morning. Leonardo has been taken. First Sofia, then him, it is too much, too painful. Hasn't he sworn that he'll not let anyone else be harmed?

Logically, he knows that this is not his fault, not directly. He and Leonardo have stopped their correspondence a few years ago - other than the occasional exchange of pleasantries, there is nothing that could hint they had once had been more than good acquaintances. Of course, Leonardo could hardly deny his Assassin allegiances, and Ezio could hardly deny their past. It's just as well the Templars know that; everyone knows that with half a mind to look at things more closely. But to use him against Ezio...

Ezio wonders, sometimes, whether he is at all worthy to hold this many lives in his hand.

He stands up and leaves the room, his hands balled into fists, not realising he's still clutching the piece of parchment. He stalks down the hall, and shoulders open a door without bothering to knock.

Yusuf jerks awake when he barges in, his hair mussed and his eyes sleep-hazy. "Ezio?" He blinks, voice slightly alarmed. He sits up in his bed, and the covers pool around his waist, baring his olive-tan chest.

They haven't spoken much since ereyesterday evening - in fact, they have been subtly avoiding each other, stepping out of a room when the other stepped in. Even so, Ezio has caught a glimpse of hurt in the lines of Yusuf's face, wondered at the guilt it made him feel. His famed Assassin Mentor's dignity has cowered in the face of a hurt displayed so openly, so vulnerably, and he lowered his eyes each time. He knew, days, even weeks ago, that his camaraderie with Yusuf could very easily turn into something dangerous, but he also reminded himself that he cannot always pursue his own desires. And for this reason, every time he thought of seeking Yusuf out, he delayed his apologies and went to Sofia's bedside instead. The guilt kept festering in his soul.

Now, though, there are matters more pressing than this unspoken chasm yawning between them, and all thoughts of apologies, fingers or mouths are pushed from Ezio's mind as he steps closer to Yusuf.

"Ezio, what are you doing here?" Ezio's expression must be dark and cruel, judged by the raising pitch of Yusuf's throaty voice. He could not care less. He feels to be precariously teetering on the brink of insanity, and his concerns are numerous; he does not have time for Yusuf's concerns, too. The thought is... unnerving, to say the least, but Leonardo's abduction is too grave a threat to leave room for anything else in his mind. He feels he is sitting under the sword of Damocles, he feels he is only separated by a hair's width from his end.

Ezio schools his expression into something neutral, for appearances' sake. Between him and Yusuf, there has never been any need for keeping up appearances. Mentor da la la la, an unusual greeting, took care of that well enough.

"I am leaving. Thank you" he says, his tone and words clipped, strictly formal, "for the hospitality you've extended towards me." He nods and makes to leave, but Yusuf is faster even half-asleep than Ezio has given him credit for. His hand is clutching Ezio's wrist in a vile grip that says more than Yusuf's hoarse "What is this about?".

"Let go of me" Ezio says, means it to bite and hurt but it comes out as a defeated sort of plea.

"Ezio, what is this?" Yusuf asks, voice entirely clear now, and before Ezio can react, the forgotten letter is already in the other's hands, eyes roaming across the lines.

"You can't leave" Yusuf says, and Ezio is truly baffled. He knows Yusuf cannot read Italian - I have a hard time remembering that Italian gibberish, a memory floats up, uncalled for and unwelcome. But as it stands, Yusuf is one of the most observant people to ever grace this Earth, and Ezio curses himself for forgetting he still held that damned letter. The mention of Masyaf, and of Leonardo's name, is apparently plenty enough for Yusuf to pick out the meaning.

Ezio meets the other's eyes, for the first time in this two days. Time slows, then stops completely, and Ezio knows life is never so grandiose or romantic, but he can't help the feeling that the universe has stilled around them.

 _Gli occhi sono lo specchio dell'anima_ , Leonardo has once said. The eyes are the window to the soul. Ezio has written it off then, as a string of idealistic nonsense that usually tumbled out of Leonardo's mouth when he was in good spirits. But now?

Now he looks into Yusuf Tazim's striking, crisp blue eyes that somehow gleam even in the cosy half-light of the room, and loses himself. In losing himself, he finds the pieces of the sanity, of the Mentor Auditore of yesterday. He has hope that he will not, in fact, lose his mind, and the thought brings relief he only rarely experiences. A surprised huff of a laugh escapes his lips. In the next moment, there is a mouth against his, sharp teeth tugging at his lower lip, and a sharp scent full of spices fills his nose. He kisses back, startled, hesitant at first, then leans in properly. Time seems to stretch on indefinitely, even Ezio knows he's only been here for minutes. He opens his eyes and pushes Yusuf away. He remembers Leonardo, who is in danger, and he remembers his reason for leaving him in the first place. His personal feelings do not matter, not in the face of that vision. Not in the face of the future.

There is no time, not for this. He must leave. For Sofia, for Leonardo, for Claudia - he must leave to grieve the dead and save the living, he must leave to make sense of the nameless pain inside him.

"I must." And with that, Ezio Auditore is out of the chamber. He is not fleeing, he tells himself, he has a duty to carry out. The thought feels strangely like a spice-coloured lie in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

There is a ship leaving for Messina in the port, and while Ezio wishes he could board a faster vessel and go directly to Roma, there in no better alternative to be had. He drops a few clinking coins into the captain's palm, and lifts his foot - his right, because he'll always remain superstitious - to step on the planks.

Sddenly, he is yanked back; his reflexes are faster than his brain, and he spins face-to-face with his attacker, dagger already in hand, hookblade drawn in the other. His attacker is Yusuf Tazim, of all people, and he is not baffled in the slightest by Ezio's reaction. Ezio despises him, then, for the easy air around him, for the relaxed set of his jaw, for the cold indifference in his eyes. Were he more in control of himself, Ezio would notice the mask slip, Yusuf's own conflicts peeking through. He doesn't.

"You cannot leave" is all Yusuf says. His voice is smooth, steady, and it is a soothing antonym of the chaos that is raging inside Ezio's head and chest. "Ezio, do you know how much time do letters take till they arrive from Rome?"

"I'm of more help there than here!" Yusuf raises a pointed eyebrow, and Ezio knows that he has a point. He is not ready to admit that, because that would mean walking back to the Galata den, that would mean walking away from someone who needs him, and he is not ready for that. He fear he never will be.

"What did the letter say? Is it your sister who wrote? Did she say not to go back?" The Turk's voice is harsh, taunting, it is meant to cut, and beautifully so. The meaning, though... there is no way Yusuf can know that from guesswork only, but of course there is a possibility that Ezio is really that much predictable. He roars and lunges at Yusuf, who is still standing serenely. He can't stand to hear this, he can't--

Yusuf nimbly steps away, and maybe rage has addled Ezio's, brain, because when they spar for the joy of it they're roughly evenly matched, but now Yusuf has him on the ground in three minutes, arms twisted back, dagger discarded and forgotten. Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing is true...

"Ezio, _kardeşim_ , Rome is very far away. By the time you get there..."

Ezio shakes Yusuf off himself. He scrambles to get upright, to turn and to step on deck and never come back--

Stunned, he watches as the Italian ship disembarks and pulls out on the midday tide. He feels as layers of his consciousness fray, as if someone were pulling at his sanity strand by strand.

He backhands Yusuf across the mouth, because he can, and because he doesn't care for anything anymore, and because by some twisted reasoning he feels is wrong, he can prove that Yusuf deserves it. He dives into the harbour, desperately trying to catch up, to absolutely no avail. He only stops at the great chain; after that, there is only the open sea. There is no hope of catching that ship. There is no going back to Roma.

Ezio clambers out of the water, soaked to the bone and dripping, because there is no sense in swimming back - he's not old, no, but his lungs can use the break. He walks, shoulders sagging under the weight of the heavy, wet robes, and it feels awfully like surrender.

Yusuf is not there at the port when he gets back, and Ezio walks on towards the Galata den. This means another delayed apology, or two at that, but he resolves to follow through with them this time. If he cannot help in Roma, he should make sure Constantinopoli benefits from his presence. Is the first step not being on good terms with the local Assassin forces?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "the eyes are the window to the soul" is a quote that, when i first learnt it, was attributed to the actual Leonardo da Vinci. i cannot find any proof of this now. might've been Shakespeare. or anyone, really. but. it remains my firm headcanon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i physically cannot write longer chapters. it's getting quite infuriating, really.

Yusuf is nowhere to be found. Ezio would worry, normally, but now he is strangely grateful for the silence (that seems to evaporate every time the Turk sets foot in a room). He steps into the empty chamber and thinks; he thinks and thinks until his vision blurs, his focus fades and his head hurts.

Claudia's letter is still lying on the floor, scrunched and half-torn, and Ezio fights the mad urge to light it on fire. He sighs, and steps fully into the room, pushing the door shut with a heel. He heads for the window instead, and settles on the sill, staring up at the slim sliver of the waning moon. He needs time, he knows; for all that he feels Yusuf's words ring true, he is still bitter, is still struggling with his pride to accept them.

Sitting here, doing nothing, it eats away at him, it gnaws at his brain. It is not so bad as it was this morning - after all, he has calmed down and can think now somewhat clearly.

He glances around Yusuf's room again, looking for some indicator as to where he might be, but finds none. The room smells of him, though, of spices and metal, and Ezio is reluctant to climb down from the windowsill.

The distant sounds of yelling and running, the low hum of passing throngs and shrill cries of vendors fill the city, but Ezio is not alarmed at the abuncance of nighttime sounds anymore. He has long since learnt that spent in Costantinopoli, every moment is a waking one, and the city itself never sleeps. He looks up again and marvels at the night sky. It's easy to pretend, in this chamber, wrapped in this scent that no worries exist. If only for a moment, his thoughts are at peace, something that is very valuable in times of turmoil. Ezio plays with the thought of reading the discarded letter again - he knows the words by heart, but to see the writing of his sister's hand would be soothing, somehow. He knows he must place his faith in Claudia and the Assassins - his Assassins - to trust them to handle this. He trusts Leonardo's judgement, too, and understands that Masyaf really is more important than one life, in the grand scheme of things.

Still, he feels that is something only Roma would send, that message - Galata is more of a family than an order, not made for cold, unforgiving sentences that bring only despair. They, of course, would accept the truth in this, but it would be with somber, tearful remembrance, rather than with a straight spine of steel and a stone-cold face. Maybe Ezio is changing here, despite his old age.

Well, he muses, some things change, but not others. He'd visited Sofia prior to coming here, and they talked a little - she still wasn't up for more than a few minutes' worth of inane chatter. Entirely understandable, if heartbreaking. And while Ezio cares for Sofia, deeply and truly, he sees now that there are things that cannot be forced. No matter he loves Sofia for her wits and wisdom, for her smiles and the spilling ginger hair, if he will never be in love with her. An important distinction, one that took years to understand. And Sofia deserves better, Sofia deserves to be treasured by someone who can give her all of their hearts.

Ezio never thought he'd be the epitome of an old romantic, he never thought he'd be like his father, with roses in his heart and between his words. Still, he is an Italian man, and from what he's gathered from the chatter that floats around in this great city, that is evidently nothing short of a national disease.

He takes a deep breath. Yusuf's scent fills his lungs, and he stops fighting for a second, stops pushing against his pesky, meddling thoughts. He needs to father a child at some point, he thinks, and despairs. But does he really? Is his task to take upon himself the burden of the entire future? He thinks, what if that future has already happened, and that's the only reason he'd seen that vision? He thinks, Leonardo was always better at surreal concepts like this, but Ezio was not, in fact, only pretending to listen, and he grasps most elaborate concepts like this, even if he fails to understand them entirely. He thinks that he'll always remain at least a little in love with Leonardo, but only in this distant, indirect way, because that is a part of their lives that has already ended. The quiet, smouldering grief tugs at his heartstrings, but there's no sorrow, just a little wistfulness. He thinks of the new, blossoming emotion in his chest - affection, perhaps, is the best way to call it. He thinks that he needs to apologise to Yusuf, to explain himself maybe, and he breathes easier.

Ezio is still not very far away from the gaping, black hole of insanity, but he took a step backwards from it, and he breathes easier.

He breathes easier, ans he's breathing in Yusuf's scent, and that creates a sense of serenity.

There is a loud, crashing sound coming from the hallway, and Ezio jerks his head in the direction of the door just as it swings open, and loud Turkish nonsense fills the room. A corner of Ezio's mind laughs as the pouring words come to an abrupt halt, and the frenzied expression melts off the Ottoman Assassin's face and gives way to pure shock.

"Mentor" he says, uncertainty wobbling his words, "where is Master Yusuf?"

Ezio swings his feet into the room, and makes to stand up. Just as he is about to answer, though, the splitting sound of a crossbow arrow sings next to Ezio's ear, and the projectile embeds itself into the windowframe mere centimeters from his head. It is clearly meant to miss, and it is clearly not an attack, just a simple warning, because there is a small roll of parchment fastened to it.

Ezio lifts an amused eyebrow to the other Assassin - and really, where is all this good cheer coming from? - before leaning over to examine the arrow.

After a few futile tugs, Ezio decides Yusuf has ended up with a new (and permanent) piece of decoration, and unrolls the piece of parchment instead. There are a few lines in that peculiar looping script, but under them the parchment reads: _Your master, Yusuf Tazim is now our hostage. We are willing to negotiate with you - you know the price._

Ezio slams his hand onto the windowsill with such force it cracks under his fist. He does know the price. Now Yusuf, too, used as a bargaining chip - no doubt they've gotten the same message about Sofia, although Ezio never once saw it. It was probably Yusuf's doing, and probably for the better, that the note has disappeared. The other Assassin steps up to him with little hesitation, and Ezio mutely hands him the parchment.

The Assassin curses. Ezio can tell it's colourful and elaborate swearing, by the grim satisfaction the Turk seems to get from it. He looks Ezio in the eyes and says, "Sultan Bayezid has fallen ill."

Something in his tone indicates there's more to tell than that, and Ezio tilts his head to show he wants to hear the rest of it. He is not sure, because he is not comfortably familiar with how the Sultan's court works, but if it is at all similar to other aristocratic structures...

"Our spies say it was most likely a poison consumed in his drink." The Assassin hesitates for a moment. "Mentor, the timing..."

Ezio nods. The timing is too perfect. He feels the Templar fingers tugging at the strings here.

"Mentor, Princes Ahmet and Selim" the Assassin adds, uncertainly, as if not sure whether Ezio knows of this or not, and Ezio nods again. The Princes.

" _Merda_ " he sighs, dragging a hand across his gaunt face. Now he understands what Yusuf meant by never having a moment's rest. "Call an assembly. I'll be down in a minute."

He looks back out at the sky, drawing in a deep breath that scorches the insides of his lungs. He knows of Bayezid's sons - he remembers Yusuf's words well.

When the Sultan coughs, the Princes draw their swords.

 

* * *

 

"The price" Ezio finishes, "is the keys to all the knowledge of Altaïr. The keys to Masyaf's vault." He sees the indignation on the faces gathered around him. Scouts came and went, information traveled between the city's Assassin strongholds lightning fast. There is no hesitation in the immediate agreement that they're getting their master back, and Ezio's heart warms.

"Listen to me" he says, and he is tired, so tired. "You need to stabilise the situation between the two Princes. You need to shield this city and its people from their rows." He pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to alleviate some of the pain pressing behind his eyes. " _Ciel'_ " he mutters, then looks up and continues. "I will go to Masyaf. I am going to retrieve the Apple of Eden - something tells me we'll need it."

Ezio, in all truth, does not count on finding the Apple. He doesn't even need the Apple, because he - perhaps in a reckless bout of bravery, perhaps not - is going to Masyaf to draw Templar focus away from Constantinopoli. He doesn't count on small miracles or deus ex machina. He only counts on having to trade his life for the other two's. But that is not something Yusuf's Assassins need to know.

"Beyler" a scout scurries back inside, addressing them all. "Sultan Bayezid is truly ill."

There is a general muttering, before another voice rises over the murmur.

"We haven't much time" the Assassin says, fingering the hilt of his sabre.

"Hayır! No, no" the scout disagrees shrilly, shaking her head. Her hands fly around her as she gesticulates. "It is a Templar rumour, nothing more. Sultan Bayezid has not been poisoned."

A stunned silence follows. The new intelligence, confusing as it may be, brings a little relief and gives them a little breathing room.

"What have the Templars to gain from this?" Another voice asks.

"But then the Princes - what do they know?"

The volume is steadily rising around the table. Ezio lifts up a placating hand, and when the questions and theories fade to a whisper, he turns to the scout.

"The Court never knew of the rumour. Our spy says the information was specifically planted for him to find." She offers to Ezio's querying look. He nods.

"Nothing better to throw us into a crazed frenzy" he nods, the gears of his mind whirling. "We must convince the Templars that we have fallen for their ruse."

A sound of general agreement, and a few nods.

"I shall leave for Masyaf nonetheless. Our enemies are vile and numerous" Ezio continues, and doesn't give in to the sigh that presses itself against his lungs and throat. "They have a scheme they're only just setting in motion. I would feel more confident with Altaïr's wisdom in my hands."

He is met with solemn nods, and understands suddenly that he is, in fact, already part of the family Yusuf has created. His place in it might be a little ambiguous, but he does have a place in it nonetheless. Joy and heartbreak flood Ezio at once, and he thinks that he knows how to repay their love and trust.

He just hopes it will be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boi am i updating rapidly

Ezio is not a reckless man, not anymore. It's something he prides himself on, actually: it has taken him enormous willpower to master the art of self-preservation.

But sometimes, he feels like he's only pretending to be calm and collected. He feels the fire burning him from the inside out, he feels the coiled, white-hot rage in his stomach and the dark buzzing on the edges of his thoughts. He is not seeing straight anymore, and not thinking at all when he slips out of Costantinopoli (Konstantiniyye, Istanbul, his mind supplies) and takes to the road leading southeastwards.

The night helps him slink around corners and avoid being seen, and the black of his robes fades into the black of the cloudy sky even as he takes one last look at the skyline littered with mosques and minarets and twinkling bronze and blue ceramic. He dives, a familiar rush into a stack of hay, then straightens, taking to horseback and not looking back. Ezio estimates it will take at least four days, probably a little more - of course, if he could hurry his horse along ruthlessly, and if they don't stop at all, he could make it in under three, but he cannot risk his horse falling out from under him in the middle of this strange country.

The last stretch of the journey is long, and neck-breaking at the very least, riddled with harsh winds and jagged rock faces. The horse gives up after a particularly steep mountain backroad. Ezio cannot blame the poor animal, and it is with deep regret that he sinks a blade into the horse's heart, relieving it from the pain of a broken leg. He stands and continues, much slower on foot but with a determination inside him colder than any mountain wind. Shelter is scarce, food is less; he is weak and tired by the time he reaches his destination. But Ezio trusts the unbounded rage inside him to carry him, to move his blades. He lifts his head and gazes ahead.

Over a ridge, Masyaf stands tall, proud even after so many stains on its honour. From afar, it almost looks at peace - the sunrise is colouring the unforgiving rock a saffron gold, and the winds that blow the snow from a peak seem almost kind, soft. It is with sadness in his heart that Ezio knows Masyaf has never been truly peaceful, nor will it ever be. He plays a part in that, he knows, and a glint on a Templar lookout's helmet only strengthens this resolve. After he exists Masyaf, it will be forever tainted with red blood for the worms to roll in.

He is not here to seek knowledge. He is not here to find lost Assassin honour.

In fact, he is not here as Mentor Ezio Auditore da Firenze. He is not an Assassin at all, not in this moment; he might have the skills, the knowledge, the wisdom of one, but he is seventeen again, despair clutching at his insides as he watches his loved ones die. Ezio knows, of course, that this is not entirely acceptable, knows that he is presently dragging the name Assassin through the mud. But maybe, the Templar cunning doesn't extend this far, maybe they expect him to be the Mentor and act accordingly. A feeble attempt to justify the bloodbath he is about to start. A feeble attempt to clear his conscience.

They'll get the Mentor, yes - in all his frightening, terrifying glory. But they won't catch a glimpse of Ezio Auditore, for he fears he has lost himself forever, all of forty years' growth lost.

Rage is a base and mindless thing, but enormous and horrendous in its simplicity. It was easy to let it take control, because Ezio has spent his entire life fighting against it. He was simply tired, he reasons, and perhaps he will get the vengeance he's spent years longing for. The closure he's been chasing all his life - because even if he understands that all this, the Assassins, the Templars, the games and the wars are part of something bigger, it is not enough to soothe the loss of his family, of Giovanni, of Federico, and of Petruccio.

He heads for the peak, backed only by the flimsy, fleeting hope that the Templars won't count on this and the cold wind.

 

* * *

 

The light of the new dawn touches its fingers upon the towers and peaks of Masyaf, warming the air an imperceptible bit, then wanders ever downwards, coating the walls with golden sugar glow as it gains strength. The great Earth has turned once more, the dawn fades into a crisp morning, and the sunlight falls into the courtyards and passages of the ancient stronghold.

Pooling blood reflects the sun, dented, chinked, chipped armour reflects the light, and an eerie, grotesque silence fills the fortress. Heaps upon heaps of lifeless limbs and bodies litter the ground; the stench of death fills the warming air.

Ezio stands on an outcrop, a once-was balcony, tugging a hand through his hair. A few grey strays cling to his fingers as he pulls his hand away, as if he needed yet another reminder of mortality rearing its head towards him. Old, he thinks, and the word has an eastern tang to it, and he realises it is not his own but Yusuf's.

Yusuf's, because Ezio can think of naught but Leonardo, Sofia and Yusuf, of his brothers and father and his mother who's never been the same after their tragedy. Ezio can think of nothing but the people hurt because of who he is.

A whimper breaks his reverie, and he glances down at the Templar at his feet, gagged and tightly bound. It is but a boy, and his resolve almost crumbles - Federico was a boy, too, and Petruccio was a boy, and he himself was not more than a fledgling, and this thought is a harsh reminder. He feels no more pity towards the lad in front of him as he frees his mouth.

In truth, Ezio worries, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he is losing his grasp on reality. He worries that he only holds on because he needs to rescue Leonardo and Yusuf first. But after that... He fears that there will be no one to yank him back from the edge of insanity. He has already reverted back to base emotions and thoughts; he can't actually think in more complicated terms.

"Listen to me" Ezio begins. He doesn't wait for a nod; the crazed, frightened light of the boy's eyes is enough. "You will go back to your masters and tell them this: I hold the Apple of Eden and come bearing judgement on you. I will only surrender myself if I see all your captives freed. An exchange, if you will."

A tug on the ropes, a slice of a blade, and the lad scrambles up and runs, not daring to look back as he flees from Ezio.

A gamble. A gamble on the lives of Leonardo and Yusuf - reckless, perhaps, but the only card he's got left. Altaïr's Apple, of course, is nowhere to be found. Ezio has presumed it's locked in the vault in the belly of Masyaf, but he hopes that the destruction of such a large armed force will convince the Templar lad that he indeed has it. After all, they know he's been hunting for the keys - what's to say he didn't find them?

With a final glance towards the road where the Templar lad disappeared, he turns and makes his way to the chambers of the resident Templar captain. Another vile Templar he's kept alive, because he needs more information. He may have started out with nothing, out of sheer bold-faced recklessness and a misplaced sense of duty, but he is not stupid, nor is he overly fond of the feeling of shooting in the dark. He questions the Templar captain, for hours on end, only to learn that he's merely a pawn.

"I will not beg you for death" the captain spits and grimaces, the words twisting out of his mouth in an ugly accent Ezio cannot place. He doesn't particularly care for it either.

He doesn't particularly care for anything at the moment.

"You fool" are the last, blood-choked words. "You know nothing. You are nothing. Foolish..." A streak of blood slides down the Templar's cheek, mixed with bubbles of saliva.

" _Requiescat in pace_ " Ezio sneers, closing the dead's eyes. He lets the body sag to the floor and stands.

Now there is truly nothing left to do but wait.

And Ezio finds a cot and sleeps, which is perhaps not the best strategic approach, but he is tired - has been so tired this past week, month, decade. His muscles and joints ache from the strain of the earlier fight, and while he remembers he cannot take on as much as he used to, this ache comes from the inside. It is not only the physical strain, but the melancholy of age as well - and that is something he would be reluctant to admit aloud. Even to himself, the tough seems treacherous.

So he sleeps, in part to rest, and in part to flee from the thoughts that rattle and rage on inside his skull. He does not have nightmares, not even in the ever-present stench of death that worms into his nostrils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean. Masyaf is approximately 1128 kilometres from Istanbul, if you cross Turkey towards Ankara then head towards the Mediterranean Sea. from there, you just kind of have to... stay on the seashore for like almost a day and then turn left and over the mountains and yay there you are. so like. it'd take four days, i think, if you wanted to sleep too, because apparently a horse's average velocity at a canter is 20 to 28 kilometres per hour. you could make it go whoosh though, at a whooping 40 to 45 kilometres per hour.  
> #lol i'm never doing this much googleearthing for a fic again  
> (also i understand the wind shouldn't be cold in the middle of a Syrian summer but. it is more Dramatic this way ok?)


End file.
